


Freezeframe

by skybean



Category: Young Justice, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mostly hurt not a lot of comfort, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 18:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1697426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skybean/pseuds/skybean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bart replays Jaime's death a million times over and knows there had been a way to save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freezeframe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Impulse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impulse/gifts).



> In which Jaime fakes his death for reasons similar to why Artemis did and Bart reacts very badly to his boyfriend dying.

Bart Allen had felt his entire brain shut down. It had been quick and easy and as he watched Jaime's body fall down, with that woman—Tigress, his eidetic memory supplied, but didn't quite connect to Bart's emotions—staring at him with a blank expression, Bart only felt the entire world around him shatter.

For a moment, Bart didn't feel the world move around him. And then everything was so slow, so sudden, and all at once. He felt himself moving, ducking under an arm of someone who was moving so quickly that Bart was positive nobody was moving at all.

“Jaime?” He rasped out, kneeling down next to Jaime's body in .0067 seconds from when Jaime had fallen down. “...Come on, this is not crash. At all. Get up.” He said.

And then reality kicked in, and the violence in the background continued onwards.

“GetupJaime,” Bart whispered, grabbing Jaime's hand, “Youneedtogetupokay? Pleasecomeonstopthisisn'tfunny.” Was that blood leaking out of Jaime's stomach. No. No no no no.

Jaime's face was opened wide in shock, as if he was going to yell out in surprise. And as reality continued to speed up behind Bart, to where the fighting had resumed once more, Bart let out the most pathetic sounding whimpers, eyes glued to Jaime's face.

“ComeonedudeyouneedtogetupJaimegetupJAIMEPLEASEGETUP.” Bart felt himself screeching, but that voice couldn't have possibly been his voice, no; Bart never made those sorts of sounds. Jaime was joking. This was just a bad joke for far too long.

It wasn't. Jaime wasn't breathing. Bart continued to squeeze Jaime's hand, before a pained screech left him—the sort of screech one let out when there was absolutely nothing left to lose. It was wordless, painful, and Bart felt his heart ache, as if it had been torn out by a rusty fork, rain through a meat grinder, and then forcibly shoved back into his chest.

They bad to pull him away from Jaime's body, and Bart was positive everything was moving so slowly around him. He couldn't move; he was trapped, trapped, watching Jaime fall down a million times over, and Bart knew, just knew that if somehow if he had been even the teeniest bit faster, by a few milliseconds, that Jaime Reyes would not be dead, not be decomposing and oh was that blood on his hands? It really was blood this time wasn't it, the most beautiful blood in the world.

Bart felt the tears pour down his cheeks, heard the whimpers escape his mouth, but couldn't actually say anything as he felt Conner continue to drag him away from Jaime's body.

 

It was the third day without Jaime. Three days of knowing Jaime Reyes was never coming back. Knowing he'd never hear Jaime's voice again.

Bart was positive that no matter how much he slept, he'd never rid himself of this weariness inside him. It had been the first time he had finally managed to drag himself out of bed—and there was still the Reach to fight, and all Bart could think about was how he never thought he'd be able to make it through a shower in one piece. Ever.

The first day, Bart hadn't slept at all, just sat on his bed and shook and replied the scene in his head a million times a second, knowing that he could have done something. By the third minute—by the eighteen millionth repetition of the memory, Bart had counted over every error, every possibly way to have saved Jaime, and the thoughts had caused him to start screaming again, to hold himself until he had passed out from screaming himself dizzy.

But back in the present, on the third day, Bart had just struggled to the shower, slumping over into it and barely managing to soap up his arms. He stared at them blankly, unable to quite comprehend what feeling felt like.

(He remembered feeling like this when Mom and Dad had died—no, no he couldn't go back down that path again—)

It had taken an hour for Bart to crawl out of the shower and change into clothes and put his smile on his face. It was a reflex, not an actual smile. It was Bart Allen getting into character as Impulse.

And at the mission debrief, when Bart was reminded there was still the Reach to fight, he felt dizzy, wanted to cry and Bart just sat on the floor when Nightwing had began to talk.

Pulling knees to chest, Bart began to shake, holding himself together. He heard words being made, but he couldn't quite think of what they were saying, and then Bart vomited onto the floor, too much of an actual mess to quite comprehend what was going on.

Bart had to be brought back to his bed, after another shower, and he just laid down and dreamed of Jaime and prayed this had all been some horrible nightmare he was going to wake up from soon.

 

It had been three weeks, and it had felt like three years. Bart hadn't been able to pull himself together, and had completely withdrawn. Unable to think, unable to feel, like everything was a dream. He had acted on a few, unhappier impulses, but had eventually picked up the costume, and slowly made his way to talk to Nightwing.

“...I quit.” First words in three weeks. “I can't do this. I quit.” Bart was gripping the costume—Impulse's costume, and Bart Allen wasn't really Impulse; he wore the costume, used the name, faked the personality, and Bart felt like he was walking on glass, he couldn't handle Jaime being dead and gone—and he stared down their fearless leader and dropped it on the ground.

Bart heard yelling, but as the zeta-tube recognised him, Bart staggered away, not really caring where he ended up, so long as it was far, far away from the base.

He couldn't run. Could barely move. So he staggered down the streets, keeping his gaze very, very firmly on the ground. In fact, Bart was positive he wasn't moving at all.

How dare the world continue moving with Jaime gone. How dare it? Bart clenched his fists, staring up now as he debated on punching something, hurting someone—but really, he was more mad at himself.

How dare he continue on living when Jaime—his entire reason for going back in time!—was gone?

Bart felt his body sit down—really, he assumed his body was giving out from under him—on a bench, and Bart knew there were tears on his face. He curled up a bit, feeling like he was going to puke.

Bart wasn't aware of someone eventually pulling him into a hug, wasn't really aware of hearing Grandpa Barry talking to him, and he just blankly stared out, questioning why he continued his existence with Jaime gone, with his entire reason for being here gone.

Bart wasn't sure how he had ended up at Grandpa Barry's house, in a bed covered in blankets, but he was only certain of being in pain and closing his eyes to try and sleep the feelings away.

 

It had taken another week before someone from the Team had come to bring Bart back from hiding out at the Allen household. However, Bart hadn't been happy about it, at all. Fought with acid in his tone the entire time, only going because he was still too exhausted in his bones to attempt to use any of his powers.

“We need to talk,” Nightwing told Bart, looking at the mess the boy had become in the last month of so. “Privately.”

“I do not wish to.” Bart felt the words in his mouth—raspy from disuse, heavy, world weary and tired.

“Bart,” Nightwing had begun, gently leading the grieving teen away from the rest of the team, “It's about Jaime—”

“About how he's dead?!” Bart demanded, trying to pull his arm away, “About how he's dead and if I had stopped playing around and moved to a capacity worth having, how Jaime'd be alive right now?!”

“Bart—”

“—I don't want to hear it! He's dead, and it's all my fault!” Bart felt his voice rise hysterically, “He's dead, and it's my fault, and now you're dragging me back, and why?! Please, just let me mourn in peace!”

“Bart.” Nightwing began again, pulling Bart into another room. He sighed, “We should have told you—and seeing you in this much of a mess is not good—but Jaime's not dead, Bart.”

“Don't lie to me!” Bart's voice was rising higher, and higher, “I had his blood on my hands!”

“Bart.”

Oh, Bart knew that voice. He knew that voice in a litany of words kissed into his shoulder, knew that voice being frustrated for eating all the snacks, knew that voice in the most intimate of ways two humans could be—sans sexually; Bart had never really had a desire on that level—and he refused to believe it was true.

After all, Jaime was dead.

“What kind of sick dream is this?” It'd be the first dream Bart remembered, but he didn't want it as he watched Jaime walk over. “Jaime's dead.”

“Bart—carino, I'm not,” Jaime said as he looked over Bart in a way that made Bart feel like Jaime was pulling back the rotting layers and peering at his soul.

“You are, Jaime,” Bart whispered, feeling Jaime move in to hug him. “I felt your blood on my hands, I watched the light leave your eyes.” He was awfully articulate in dreams. “You're dead.”

“No, no, I'm not! I'm alive. It's complicated, but I am completely and utterly alive. I promise to you.” The not-Jaime insisted. “I'm so sorry, but nobody could know. Nobody. Not even you. The Reach had to think I was dead. They were going to target my family, Bart.”

“Of course they would, dream-Jaime,” Bart heard himself saying, body swaying as he felt himself grow more and more short of breath, “But you're still dead.”

He needed to sit down. Which is why Bart responded by slumping over, and feeling Jaime catch his body. Bart began to laugh as he clung to the dream-Jaime, mumbling about how Jaime had to be dead, he just had to be.

 

It had taken four and a half hours for Bart to forgive Jaime. Four and a half hours for Bart to feel the world at a proper pace, four and a half hours to kiss Jaime again, four and a half hours to break out of the mourning he had been in.

“I'm still mad at you,” Bart confessed as he laid on Jaime's chest, half-nuzzling him from sheer tiredness, “But I can forgive you now.”

Jaime had laughed and pulled Bart closer to him. “I'm so sorry.”

“Next time you have to die, tell me, okay?”

“Of course, carino, of course.”


End file.
